


Bottom of the Sea (just don't go without me remix)

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: It was on his way out that he saw it. It looked pretty innocuous, like a bedroll or someone's discarded coat, but he knew it as soon as he saw it. His mom's had looked the same way, too long unworn and faded around the edges, but still silky smooth and beautiful in the right light. Clint limped over and grabbed the skin, draping it over his arms as best he could, trying not to touch it too much with his hands and the crusted-in blood under his fingernails.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 30
Kudos: 286
Collections: Winterhawk Remix 2020





	Bottom of the Sea (just don't go without me remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [bottom of the sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992904) by [VerdantMoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth). 



> Thank you to verdantmoth for giving me such a lovely space to play, and my beta for making me better in every way

Clint wasn't sure that anyone else would've recognised it. 

The air tasted like copper and cordite, and he had taken down seven Hydra goons before one of them had got him with a bullet through the meat of his calf. It wasn't a debilitating injury, just painful and messy. What with the anticipated numbers of Hydra goons and the ones he'd already taken down, he figured that he'd do better heading out to the quinjet and the med kit stowed under the bench seat in back than lose more blood chasing down stragglers. The team'd be fine mopping up without him, and Tony tended to get sarcastic when Clint bled all over things. 

It was on his way out that he saw it. It looked pretty innocuous, like a bedroll or someone's discarded coat, but he knew it as soon as he saw it. His mom's had looked the same way, too long unworn and faded around the edges, but still silky smooth and beautiful in the right light. Clint limped over and grabbed the skin, draping it over his arms as best he could, trying not to touch it too much with his hands and the crusted-in blood under his fingernails. 

Maybe he figured out who it belonged to after he’d finished with the bandages and tylenol, sanitised his hands and finally managed to spread the thing out. The star that had been branded into the skin was pretty fuckin' distinctive. 

Maybe it was when Steve saw the skin spread across his lap and bit his lip, asking in a low voice if he thought one of the goons had been a selkie, 'cos that wasn't something most humans would know about. 

"Maybe," Clint said noncommittally, and spent the rest of the flight back mostly failing at repressing the urge to run his fingertips across silky-smooth fur. 

He knew for sure, though, when Bucky lost all the goddamned colour in his face when he saw it, wobbling almost as badly as Clint was at this point. (The bullet hole might've been a little worse than he'd been thinking, but that was what the medical staff were for.) 

"Is that- ?" he asked, his voice barely there, and Clint held it out to him with careful hands. 

The look of awe on Bucky’s face was something Clint had never seen and it put a moment’s hesitation in front of his need to step in; it was enough time for Steve to put a hand on Bucky’s arm and provide the help that Clint had intended. 

“There’s sea-salt in the communal kitchen,” he said, “one of Tony’s fancy gourmet brands. I’ll take the blame if you wanna swipe it - you guys have a tub, right?” 

Clint tried not to resent Steve for getting the gratitude that ought to’ve been his - he would have come up with that, would have offered Bucky that option too - and followed the medic that touched his arm with a meekness that seemed to startle her. That probably explained the overly thorough examination, since he usually had to be dying before he’d willingly submit to their tests. 

By the time Clint got back to their floor the sky had lost all its colour, pricked through with stars that were visible up this high even in New York. The dressing on his calf was more professional now, and they'd decided against stitches which was always a win. He was floating on a warm cloud of medicated bliss, and he settled onto the couch and listened to the splashing from the bathroom. 

By the time Bucky was done, emerging in a cloud of steam from where he'd showered off the salt water - and Clint hoped no one expected him to clean off where it would’ve crusted around the edge of the tub - it was almost midnight. Clint was giving serious thought to just sleeping on the couch, rather than trying to put weight back on his leg. 

"How the hell did you know?" Bucky said. He'd teleported to the end of the couch - or Clint's eyes'd slipped closed for a little too long - and this close Clint could see that he was looking red around the eyes, like he'd been crying. 

"My mom had one just like it," he said. 

"Your mom was a selkie?" Bucky looked kinda awed, and soft, and so fucking human it hurt. Clint heaved himself a little more upright on the couch because it made him feel less vulnerable and he needed everything he could get. 

"What my mom was, was miserable," he said. He looked down at his hands. "Dad hid her skin from her because he always figured if she got it back she'd leave." He smiled, crooked but genuine, and looked up to meet Bucky's sea-gray eyes. "I would’ve understood if she had." 

Bucky didn’t respond, just looked distant and thoughtful, but he was quick enough to help Clint when he started struggling to his feet. They made their slow and lopsided way to the bedroom - decorated in greys and blues like the winter sea, with the occasional purple a jangling discord - and Bucky lowered Clint to sit on the bed. He knelt down to work on removing Clint’s boots, and Clint had to bend forward and kiss the top of Bucky’s head, smell the traces of salt water that still clung to his hair. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, just loud enough to hear, clearly meaning it with the whole of his soul. Clint just heaved himself awkwardly all the way onto the bed, matching his breathing to Bucky’s until he was certain he was the only one awake. 

It was only going to be a matter of time now before Bucky would have to go back to the ocean. Clint remembered the lines of strain that had built up on his mom’s face over the years and the way she had slowly faded away; by the time the car crash took both of them it had felt like she’d already been gone for years, no matter what his dad had done to try to make her stay. 

Clint scrubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep until he had curled himself tight against Bucky’s back, because he needed this for as long as he could get it (because no good deed goes unpunished, after all).

*

Things remained steadier than he had expected for the next couple of months. He’d been braced for a huge change, but Bucky seemed fine - as fine as he ever was, at least. Sure, he took saltwater baths with more frequency as the days passed, and sure, he occasionally looked lost in thought somewhere far away, but things between them were as good as they ever had been. Bucky was still laughing; Bucky still lit up with a grin when Clint walked into the room. For a little while Clint convinced himself that things were gonna work out. 

He woke up a couple of times with the bed empty beside him though, and when he shuffled out into the living room only barely awake there was a slice of white light across the floor from the just-open bathroom door. He didn't go in, 'cos Bucky hadn't offered to show him what he looked like in his skin, and Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to know what expression Bucky wore when he was _home_. 

Then came the week where Clint had to go serve as backup for one of Natasha's undercover gigs. It was a nothing role, mostly involving sitting around in coffee shops, pretending like he wasn’t reading Kindle on his phone. Once or twice he went to explore the bustling market, good enough at the language to ask for what he wanted, practiced enough at not looking like a tourist to get decent prices on things. The covered stalls and narrow alleys were a nightmare for security, and he got itchy if he stayed more than half an hour, but on one of his trips he found a beautiful pair of cuff-links with mother of pearl spiral shells that were clearly of better quality than anything else on the stall. 

He considered buying them - either for Bucky or for himself - but it felt too much like counting on a future that felt precarious. Besides, if Bucky left he wasn’t sure he’d want something that reminded Clint of him. 

There was a flurry of activity at the end of their trip; explosions, derring-do, all the Barton specials. He was sore and aching on the flight home and he put on a sleeping mask, covered himself with a blanket and pretended to be asleep until they announced arrival in the US. Outside of the window there was an expanse of beautiful sea-blue; Clint closed his shutter until they landed.

Steve took Bucky to the ocean. That was what they did while he was away. Steve took Bucky to the ocean, went swimming with him in the sea, almost got crushed by over affectionate blubber the way he tells it. Steve did all the things that Clint had been too scared and too selfish to offer, and it ground like sand and broken seashells against emotions that were too unguarded to take it well. 

Clint had thought he'd known what Bucky looked like happy, that was all. 

It made him snippy and miserable, because he was a selfish bastard who apparently couldn’t be happy for the guy he loved. Maybe if he took a run-up at it; maybe if he got to see how Bucky looked in the sea. For now he just wound up being an asshole in response to everything Bucky said until the guy threw his hands up in exasperation. 

“Jesus,” Bucky snapped, “there’s no living with you when you’re like this!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t then,” Clint yelled back. “Maybe you should just go.” 

It wasn’t a fight - Clint wouldn't call it a _fight_ exactly, 'cos it was mostly just him bleeding his vulnerabilities all over the living room floor - but it ended with Bucky going to sleep in Steve's spare room and Clint curling up between the couch and the wall and counting his breaths to keep from drowning. 

If there was one comforting thought in all this it was that at least now he knew he wasn’t as selfish as his dad. It might be inevitable that he was gonna lose Bucky, but at least there was no way he'd steal Bucky’s happiness to try and make him stay. 

*

Clint’s dreams were restless that night. Ebbing and flowing and sparkling in the darkness, until the ocean seemed full of stars. He swam through it - so fast and so deep and so long he thought his lungs would burst with it - and he knew he was chasing after something he had lost, but he couldn’t be sure if it was Bucky or something he’d long forgotten. 

“I need to go,” someone said, and it was a voice that Clint loved. 

He woke up choking, salt water burning his eyes and the back of his throat. He rolled onto his back - he was gonna have to get used to having the whole width of the bed again soon - and slung his arm across his face, but all that he could see was the sheer delight on Bucky's face when he and Steve were talking about the ocean. 

He remembered the same transcendent look on his mom's face, too. Vaguely, in that little kid way where you're not sure how much of it was a dream. Most of the washed-out pastel dreams of his mom had paled into illegibility next to the thick drawn lines of anything to do with his dad, but he knew he'd seen her smile in the sunlight and the reflection of the ocean. He knew he'd gone swimming with her, using her buoyancy to go further out and deeper in than he'd ever been before. 

He remembered being devastated that he couldn't change too. 

Clint sniffed hard and scrubbed a hand across his face when the mattress dipped beside him, clearing his throat a couple of times in the hopes that it'd do something to clear the lump that had taken up residence there. His face was probably a wash - flushed and spiky-lashed and telling tales with every last inch of it - but he could do this as long as Bucky didn't turn on the light. 

He expected more frustration, maybe some anger after the argument they'd had, so the long exhalation that sounded resigned kicked Clint right in the ribs. He hunched up around the hurt, rolling back onto his side again and giving Bucky his back. 

"You ready to talk about this?" Bucky said, and Clint made a noncommittal noise and shuffled a little further away, trying to convince himself that he was just making room. 

There was another long sigh, and then Bucky swung his legs onto the bed, lying on his back for a minute or two before he rolled onto his side and eased in closer to Clint. Just as soon as Bucky's arm crept over his side Clint grabbed the metal hand in his and held it, tight enough to press red lines into his skin. 

"I thought you were staying with Steve," he managed eventually, definitely only hoarse and whispery because it was the middle of the night. 

"Yeah, well," Bucky said, tugging Clint a little closer, "it turns out I don't much want to waste the time I’ve got with you." 

*

It felt like they were walking on eggshells after that. The kind of tension that needs decisive action to make it break. 

Clint organised the trip to the beach with a kind of steel-jawed determination that would be more appropriate for battle stratagems, or missions where you didn’t expect everyone to return. Clint picked out a place a long way down the coast, and went to do reconnaissance there on a wind-whipped gray-edged day. The nominal parking lot was sandswept and looked like it'd been that way for a while; he counted just three repeat visitors from the wear on their tires. 

It made sense when he picked his way down to the seafront, hastily-grabbed rocks skinning the palms of his hands; the trail was pretty treacherous, and the beach wasn't the type that welcomed bathing. The sand was strewn with salt-crusted rocks and bladderwrack, and was just a narrow strip that barely separated the cliff from the sea. It was possible to pick your way out further between rock pools and jagged-toothed gaps, but it was not a beach that was friendly to human occupation. Clint had a sinking feeling that Bucky was going to love it. 

He made his way out over slick rocks, pushing out as far as he could before sinking down to settle there, the violently crashing waves making his lips taste like salt. There was a wild kind of beauty to it and he could see himself visiting, watching the choppy sea for a glimpse of a familiar face. It depended if he'd have time to get to know Bucky's seal-skin, he guessed; it depended how much he wanted this to hurt. 

It ached deep inside that he knew he'd survive it. That he knew he'd survived it before. Bobbi hadn't been any kind of fairytale creature and they'd just been through so much together that it wore them incompatible over time, but Clint thought that had probably made the break up easier than this was going to be. He'd never had the time to drive Bucky crazy, never had a chance to see all the ways it could go wrong; as far as he knew they could've grown old together, and the lost possibility was going to hurt like hell. 

Clint called Bucky when he finally got back to the car, favouring his left ankle from a mishap on the climb. Bucky's voice was bright and happy to hear from him, and Clint smiled back and tasted brine. 

"Hey," Bucky said, "where were you today? I wanted to talk to you." 

Clint took a deep breath. "We can talk tomorrow, if you've got the day free?" 

"Yeah." Bucky's voice was so much warmer than the cold sea air; Clint climbed into the car and turned on the engine, the vents blowing him colder as they took their time warming up. 

"Okay," Clint said. "You think maybe you'd want to go swimming with me?" 

There was a little something like exasperation in Bucky's voice, even though it was almost papered over with fond. 

"This ain't a competition, sweetheart," he said. "I'm sorry I went with Stevie first, but there’s time to make that up." 

"Yeah," Clint said, and hung up without saying anything more. He had to flick his lights on before leaving the parking lot, lowering clouds darkening the world around him as he drove away from the shore. 

*

Clint woke the next morning to Bucky’s lips against the back of his neck, and he lost himself in easy physicality for a little while. This had always been good between them, and he was loose-limbed and languid when Bucky was finally done with him, reconsidering all his plans in favour of spending the day wrapped up in bed and each other. Bucky was bright-eyed and grinning though, and he grabbed Clint’s hand and dragged him to the end of the bed. 

“You promised me swimming,” he said. 

Clint packed a bag with his swim shorts, some snacks, a couple towels; Bucky just carried his seal skin, which he still touched with reverent hands. 

It was cold enough in the car for Bucky to spread the skin out over his lap, absently petting the silky fur with his chilled fingers, and it was soft against Clint's skin when he moved his hand to shift gears. The drive mostly passed in silence, Bucky watching the highway signs with an unreadable look as they passed overhead. He grinned at Clint, though, wide and genuine, when they turned off close to the shore. Almost before the car drew to a stop he swung his door wide and hopped out, draping the skin over his shoulders like a cape before reaching in to grab Clint's bag too and swing it over his shoulder. He circled the car and reached out to take hold of Clint's hand, tugging him along to the gap in the guardrail where the precipitous trail wound down to the sea. 

"How the hell did you find this place?" Bucky asked. "I'd swear no one else knows about it." 

"You've been here before?" Clint's gut twisted. 

"Nearby," Bucky said evasively, and pressed his hand to the front of Clint's shirt before Clint’s foot could slip out from under him and spill him down the cliff. 

"I thought you'd like it." 

Bucky turned back to look at him, keeping his balance with no effort at all, an uncomplicated smile on his face. 

"It's perfect," he said. 

"Yeah," Clint murmured, his heart sinking to the bottom of the sea. "That's what I thought you'd say." 

There was no one else on the beach when they got there, only a lone sail bobbing far out to sea. Clint had expected a little hesitation from Bucky, but he'd barely set foot on the gritty sand before he was almost bowled over sideways by a huge form. It was a little hilarious how graceless Bucky was on land, like this, and Clint couldn't help cackling as Bucky chased him slowly across the sand. In the water, though, Bucky was - magical. In his element, in the most basic and natural sense. Clint eventually tired and waded out of the sea, settling himself against the cliffs and keeping watch over their clothes. He pulled Bucky’s hooded sweater on after a minute or two, the cold air prickling his skin. 

It wasn't until the sun faded into the water that Bucky came back, draping his skin across Clint's shoulders and sprawling across his lap. Clint tangled his fingers in Bucky's salt-stiffened hair and wished they could stay there, but that wasn't how these things worked. 

"Would you take me with you, if you could?" Clint asked, and Bucky awkwardly turned over so he could look up at him, his eyes glinting in the darkness like the sea. 

"What?" 

Clint shrugged. “When you go back to the sea.” 

“What makes you think -” 

Bucky fell silent, and then there were cool fingers against Clint’s cheek, stroking against the sea salt left behind. 

“Jesus, Clint, is that what all this has been about?” 

Clint smiled, slow and painful, his lips brushing against Bucky’s skin. 

“I’m not my dad, Buck. I love you enough to let you go.” 

“Maybe so,” Bucky said. He pushed up on his elbow and tugged Clint’s face down to his, kissing him slow and cool but warming up, tasting of himself and the sea. “Maybe I’m more selfish than you are,” he said. “No way I’m ready to leave you, pal. We’ve got some growin’ old to do.” 

Clint loosed a soft sound that was lost in Bucky’s mouth, the relief running through him making him weak. He pulled Bucky up so he could wrap both arms tight around him, giving in to the need to have him as close as possible, and Bucky’s hands slid into his hair and held him just as tightly back. 

Neither of them let go for a long, long time. 

*

A handful of years and a couple of miles further along the coast the waves were easier, the waters a little less cruel. It was easing back around to summer again, just the edges of its heat peeking through the curtains Clint had hung lopsided in spite of Natasha’s advice. 

The little cottage was closer to the sea than anyone sane would want to live, the yard made up of sand and seagrass and the front of it washed paler with salt spray. They’d bought the place for a song because it was practically falling apart, and the summers since had been spent fixing it up a little at a time. It was small and it was drafty and the roof in the smallest bedroom still leaked; there was an archery target out back and a seal skin draped over the back of the couch. 

“What d’you think?” Bucky had said the first time Clint saw it, with its long-broken windows and its teetering front porch. “You see yourself growing old here?” 

Clint had taken a deep breath of the briny air, the sound of the sea washing gently around him and Bucky’s hand held warm in his. 

“Anywhere,” he’d said, easy as breaking the surface. “As long as it’s with you.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Bottom of the Sea (Just Don't Go Without Me Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868763) by [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359)




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